


Pursuing You

by VioletGhost



Series: Chlerek Dream [2]
Category: Darkest Powers - Kelley Armstrong
Genre: F/M, Female Masturbation, Sexual Tension, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletGhost/pseuds/VioletGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "A Normal Day". The aftermath of Chloe's peeping has some unforeseen consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pursuing You

Pursuing You

:-:Book Two of Steamy Dreamy Trilogy:-:

 Chloe Saunders/Derek Souza

Despite how her aunt viewed her, naïve, trusting, and innocent, Chloe Saunders knew better. She wasn’t naïve (although she was gullible) or innocent (at least in mind), although some would say she was _too_ trusting.

Despite her flaws (like for blaming herself for things or making wrong decisions), she had loving, wonderful kind of boyfriend. One very cranky, very loyal wolf named Derek Souza. Sure, he could be a pain in the ass, but he was _her_ pain in the ass.

At that train of thought, she felt her face flush with heat, blood rushing to her cheeks in ugly patches.

“What are you thinking about so hard over there?”

She whipped around to find Derek leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Beads of water ran down his jaw, the tendons of his throat, his pulse, soaking into the fabric of his sweatshirt. Her mouth went dry at the sight of him, his muscular forearms, flexing underneath a layer of cream-colored skin.

“N-nothing,” she lied reflexively, glancing down at the simmering yolks in the pan, bubbling rapidly over the heat of the stovetop.

 “You’re lying,” he murmured, his voice smooth and gentle, teasing even, lacking the accusatory tone that he would’ve used a while ago. 

Ever since they’d wiggled out of the Edison Group’s clutches, Derek’s asshole attitude had changed. He opened up, cracking jokes a few times, teasing Chloe over her blushes; hell, he even sometimes initiated the shy kisses they shared, the walks they went on.

He was kinder, gentler; it was as though a giant burden had been lifted off his shoulders, allowing him to peel off that harsh, rough part of his personality just a little bit. Now and then, he’d say or do something insensitive and it would shock her, reminding her of the Derek she'd met in Lyle House, rough around the edges, biting words, strong hands, and the worst self-esteem ever, and he’d sulk about it for days until she convinced him it was okay.

“I-I’m not,” she protested around a wide smile, ignoring the pointed look he gave her when he ducked into the room, head brushing the top of the doorframe.

“You _are_ ,” he pushed, the smile still there, but a hint of frustration.

Whenever she got lost in her daydreams, he’d always ask her what they were about, and she’d get flustered and lie and stutter through some answer.

“Am not,” she argued, pushing the yellowed yolks around with her fork while avoiding his eyes. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she willed her blush down and tried to think unsexy thoughts.

As she scraped the sides of the pan, she _totally_ didn’t think about how much she wanted him, how badly she wanted to trace his muscles with her tongue. She didn’t think about hearing him gasping and moaning _her_ name the other day, seeing him squeezing the hard cock between his legs, head thrown back in pleasure, her panties— _that was where they went!—_ stuffed in his mouth.

“Chloe,” he murmured softly, his heat scorching her skin as he brushed passed her to get to the fridge, painfully close.

She sucked in air through her clenched teeth and cut off the heat, scraping half the eggs onto her plate. Her cheeks burned with the intense heat of her blush as she heard him rummaging in the fridge beside her.

She peeked over at him out of the corner of her eye and practically drooled at the sight of the strip of skin between his jeans and the bottom of his t-shirt, smooth and pale. His underwear was blue, covered in little constellations, and she snickered at how much of a science dork he was.

“What?” he asked once he straightened, the milk jug in one hand.

She shrugged a shoulder absently while she ran cold water over the hot pan to avoid looking at him. If she did, she’d see his red, veiny cock jutting out from between his hairy thighs and the cum dribbling out, thick and creamy, his eyes closed, his throat swallowing, muscles tense and then relaxed. Fuck, she needed to get a hold of herself.

She tensed her lower abdomen muscles and flushed as some wetness seeped into her panties.

“Chloe.”

The voice, much closer than she’d thought it would be, made her jump and gasp, hitting her elbow on the hot stove top. Clutching her arm, she lurched the other way and hissed as he grabbed her arm and inspected the red skin.

With a smirk, he declared, “I think you’ll live.” Even as he said that, he wet a washcloth and squeegeed the excess water out before he turned back to her and dabbed the injured skin gently, his touch firm but gentle.

He was close enough that she could smell his shampoo, something with a cool bite to it, and, before she could stop herself, she was running her fingers through his hair.

He froze, his hand mid-swipe, and she was worried that she’d taken things too far. Maybe he didn’t want her like she wanted him—what about him moaning her name? Or him squeezing her breasts and grinding into her ass, his cock a hard ridge between her legs?—and he was trying to figure out how to let her down easy.

A velveteen groan made her jerk away, but he pressed his mouth, searing, against her shoulder, his arms locking around her waist, lightning fast. It took her less than a minute to realize he’d made that noise, purring, and he wasn’t pushing her away. Her mouth went dry at the sight of the bulge in his jeans, painfully obvious.

“D-Did I—” she squeaked, attempting to put her jumbled worry into words, but bit her tongue once she saw his eyes, so green they put emeralds to shame, glazed and wild and so damn intense, so full of an emotion that made her stomach twist and jump in surprise and a mixture of hope.

“Ew!”

Derek lurched backwards, a loud snarl tearing from his mouth as though he were an animal, crouching low to the ground as he faced the new figure in the kitchen.

Tori’s lip curled as she eyeballed them from the threshold, her hair wild around her angular face. Since it was early in the morning, her face was completely makeup free and it was a bit splotchy.

“If you’re going to make out with my brother,” she bit out like the bitch she was, “do it elsewhere.”

“W-We weren’t d-doing an-nything,” Chloe squeaked, balling her hands into fists.

Derek shot Tori a murderous glare and stalked away without another glance at Chloe.

Tori, smirking like she won something, sauntered closer and snatched up the eggs. On the way out of the kitchen, she popped open the utensil drawer and snatched a fork, flashing a superior smirk at Chloe over her shoulder.

The necromancer found herself panting and gasping for breath, wrapping her arms around her chest to keep her heart inside her ribcage. Once Tori crossed the threshold and headed down the hall, she collapsed to the floor, her cheeks burning with the intensity of her blush.

_Fuck,_ she thought, staring wide-eyed, vacantly, at the spot where Derek’d been, _I want him more than ever._

Chloe nudged open Derek’s door with her hip, balancing the laundry basket against her side.

The smell of pine needles assaulted her lungs, and she spied his open window, overlooking the forest of pine trees and evergreens.

His bed was the only thing neat in his room, the corners of his bed spread tucked in at the corners military-style, not a wrinkle in the duvet.

Sighing to herself, she set down the laundry basket and made her way around the room, sniffing his clothes delicately to decide whether or not they were clean. Most of them weren’t.

Once the dirty clothes were on the basket, she folded the clean ones and laid them on his bed. From there, she pulled his hamper out of his closet and gasped at what sat inside, on the very top of the pile, covered in something sticky and white.

Chloe’s hands shook as she picked up her favorite panties, letting them dangle by the leg hole off her finger, covered in what she believed was Derek’s cum.

A thrill shot up her spine as she stared at the dried mess.

“Chloe? I told you I can do my own laundry,” Derek rumbled somewhere behind her, and she turned around slowly.

“Derek, what are these?” She couldn't keep the terrified tremor out of her voice if she tried. How _else_ was she supposed to react when she found her underwear, covered in cum, in her pretty much except not official boyfriend’s room?

He looked away quickly, his jaw tense. “Underwear,” he muttered under his breath, kicking the carpet with one foot. Jamming his hands deep into his pocket, he shifted and squirmed.

“Who’s?” She shook the panties at him.

“Uh…” He bit his lip.

“Mine. You know, y-you—” She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. If he could steal her underwear, why couldn't she tease him about it? He obviously found her attractive enough to masturbate to. “You could've j-just as-asked.”

“I couldn't have,” he growled, and it was then she noticed his huge pupils and darkened eyes. Her eyes trailed down to his groin, where a prominent bulge jutted out. “If I had, I would've fucked you right then and there, until you couldn't even walk, little pussy wrapped around me like a vice.”

It wasn't her Derek talking anymore; the voice was too rough and seductive to be his. Plus, her Derek wasn't that vulgar. Her werewolf got embarrassed when she even said the word “bra.".

“You—you would?” she managed to squeak out passed the tremor, her face turning red at the delicious possibility.

He smiled, a short, feral flash of teeth, and then he was in front of her, looming, a predator in every sense of the word, preying on her desires, her wants and needs. “Yes,” he purred, laying his palm against her cheek, “I’d love to see you pierced on my cock, riding me like I've dreamt. Mm.”

As he crooned to her, he lowered his head slowly to the junction of her throat and shoulder and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to it.

Her arms shot out and wrapped tightly around his neck. A whimper bubbled out of her mouth on its own accord, half-whine, half-moan.

Strong, hot hands gripped the underside of her thighs and hitched her legs around his waist as he kissed up from the junction, lavishing the skin with slow swipes using the flat of his tongue. He rolled his hips into hers, the fly of his jeans pressing into her clit suddenly, drawing a short gasp from her, and pleasure rolled down her spine, heat pooling between her quivering thighs.

“De…rek!” she groaned as he nipped her jaw lightly, and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her heart was pounding so hard, she was scared it would leap out of her chest as one hand left her legs, maneuvering the remaining arm underneath her butt.

“Mm. Mate,” he hissed against her cheek.

Her heart swelled with joy as he touched her spine, just above the back of her jeans. He wanted her. Werewolf mates, she remembered faintly, absently toying with her boyfriend’s hair, are the equivalent of soul mates, the perfect match, one’s destiny. Unlike real wolves that bounce from partner to partner, werewolves and their mates tend to mate for life. When they initiate the mating, a werewolf’s wolf will take over until the deed is done.  

The hand on her back stilled and the body beneath her stiffened. “Chloe?” It was Derek’s voice, confused and absent, not the wolf’s.

“De—” Before she could so much as blink, he set her on her feet firmly and took off. “Derek!” she called as she fixed her shirt and scrambled after him, cursing his long legs and werewolf abilities. Down the hall, skipping steps on the stairs, through the living room and out the back door. Across the long grass, hurrying into the thicket of trees that hugged the estate. Where was he going?

“Christ,” Derek was saying when she got within a few feet from him, “what the fuck were you thinking? You could've hurt her! Really hurt her! And what if she doesn't want…that…from us?” He was quiet, and it dawned on her he was talking with his wolf.

She hung back behind a tree, feeling a small twinge of guilt for eavesdropping.

“I _know!_ I wish I could—I'm not into—I can't do that. She’s not really…” His voice trailed off.

Her heart lying somewhere in the grass, broken, Chloe turned and ran all the way back to the house, where she crashed headlong into Tori, who eyed her like mud on the bottom of her shoe. _He doesn't want you._

Hot tears filled her eyes, painful, as she shoved past Tori and broke into a flat-out sprint on the stairs. _Of course you're not his type. Skinny, no tits, no ass. A little girl. Why on Earth would he ever want you?_

She closed the door to the bathroom behind her and locked it. Every inch of her felt grimy and used, disgusting; he was probably imagining someone else in place of her, maybe a real woman with curves and a nice set of tits, not a little girl with bony knees and squeaky moans. While the hot water ran, she stripped down and glared at her minuscule breasts and the dense curls between her thighs. Bones peeked out everywhere, like a bird’s.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she scowled and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water scald her skin.

Fine, she’d forget about him.

The first week was hard. They ran into each other everywhere, on the stairs, in the kitchen, in the backyard. It broke her heart every time she saw him, even from a great distance, and the chasm grew inside her since that very first night, growing larger and larger, nearly splintering her into two Chloes.

Tori, rash and impulsive, cornered the little blonde in the kitchen one evening, just before dusk. “Look,” the punk girl hissed, grabbing Chloe’s arm, “I don’t know what the fuck is going on but you better get off your goddamn high horse and sort things out with Derek. I’m sick of the moping.”

Chloe felt a flare inside of her blaze and she glared at Tori. “Shut the _hell_ up, Tori. Like you’re one to talk. You made my life a hell just because Simon liked me, remember? You tried to _kill_ me because, oh no, you weren't the center of attention. You goddamn hypocrite! Why don’t you mind your own business and stay out of my life.”

Having rendered Tori speechless, Chloe smiled grimly. Yanking her arm away, the necromancer stalked away and marched downstairs, heading straight for the backyard.

She hurried along the path, weaving deeper and deeper into the forest, until she couldn’t see the house or the lights and her legs gave out and sweat darkened the collar of her t-shirt.

Hot, angry tears swarmed her vision as she sank heavily against a tree, covered her eyes, and cried.

What happened to crushing on a boy from afar? Why did her life have to be so difficult? 

She got shipped off to a house for crazy kids, then she found out she wasn’t crazy and was actually a necromancer, went on the run, and then was held captive by some psychopaths in lab coats who thought they could help, kissed a boy only to get rejected in the woods and get confronted by his brother, who she was painfully into without realizing it. She’d been nearly killed by a thug, slept in abandoned houses, run from the cops, and that hadn’t been as hard as this.

“Fuck!” she screamed as she turned away from the tree and kicked it as hard as she could, scraping from her ankle to her knee. Ignoring the sting of the tipped flesh, she kicked and kicked and kicked the tree until her foot ached, and then kicked some more because she hated Derek, and she hated Tori, and she hated life, and she hated being a stupid fucking necromancer, and she hated the Edison Group for making her a freak of nature, and she hated her mom for letting them ruin her.

Low, painful sobs built up in her throat as she fell against the trunk, wrapping her hand across her eyes. How could she have gone from a normal, shy teenager whose worst problem was a crush not liking her back to a deadly, powerful necromancer on the run?

As she caught her breath, sniffling and panting and shaking, she steadied her resolve.

She’d ignore everyone who thought she and Derek needed to make up because she hadn’t done anything wrong; if anything, it was _his_ fault for leading her on and kissing her and making her think he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

She just wasn’t his type. She never was anyone's type, unless you counted those creepy wolves, Ramon and Liam.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned, used the bottom of her shirt to wipe her face off any evidence of crying, and headed back to the house. She used the path and kept one eye on her feet and the other in front of her, scanning her surroundings.

Once she broke the tree line, she saw all the lights on in the house and groaned when a tall, broad figure blotted out the light that steamed in through the backdoor.

“Chloe?”

She took a deep breath and wiped belatedly at her eyes as the door swung open violently.

Derek’s hulking figure stalked out, all rigid and fierce, and crossed the backyard lawn within five of her strides easily, meeting her midway. He glared down at her with harsh eyes, his nostrils flared.

“What the fuck?” he boomed, his voice ringing in the sweet, lush night air.

She drew in a short breath and sucked her cheek into her mouth as she hugged her chest tightly. A few beads of sweat ran down her face as she stared at a spot above his shoulder rather than look him in the eyes; partly because she didn’t want to look him in the eyes after what he did, partly because she didn’t want to lose her resolve, and partly because she was afraid he’d see the trace of tears in her face.

“Do you know how worried we all were? Even _Tori_ was worried about you, said you’d thrown a fit and stormed into the woods. Do you have any idea how stupid that was? Lauren’s beyond pissed and you’ve managed to even make my _dad_ angry. What were you _thinking_?”

All the breath was forced out of her lungs as she realized it was later than she’d initially thought. She’d left a little after five, and from the moon gleaming down on them and the lack of bright blue sky, it looked about eight or nine. Her brain processed what he’d said quickly, and her surprise was washed away with rage.

“T-Tori was the o-one that started things! S-she a-acts like she’s never been a total b-bitch to anyone when she made everyone’s lives a-acts Lyle House hell just because Simon had a thing f-for me. I throw a f-fit apparently because I don’t let her w-walk all over me? R-remember, she tri-ied to _kill_ m-me! Because I’m the only one who remembers how horrible she was and called her out on it? I didn't feel l-like being sc-screamed at, _so_ _so-orry_.” Sneering, she was panting as she shoved her hair away from her face.

Derek’s scowl deepened.

“I’m not _done,_ so shut your mouth! I have tried but I’m just sick of your shit! Blaming everyone else but yourself and moping around li-ike a thirteen-year-old that didn’t get his way! I thought…I thought maybe you wanted me too, maybe I wasn’t imagining it, but you’re standing here, belittling me like you always do, making me feel smaller than I already do.”

“Chloe?” A feminine figure leaned out the door, and she was glad that Lauren interrupted them.

Without another glance at the tense, silent werewolf, Chloe turned and walked away as fast as she could without breaking into a run.

Cooled water ran down her spine as she stepped up to the sink, her pajama shirt hanging off her like a sail. Sighing heavily, she patted her cheeks with cold water to bring down the red splotches under her eyes from the heat of the shower and tears.

She looked haggard, her skin waxy and devoid of color, her hair lank and lifeless, her eyes rimmed around with red like smeared eyeliner; shocked, she stumbled away from her corpse-like reflection and drew in a short breath, held it until her head swam, and unlocked the bathroom door.

A yelp escaped her as she bumped hard into the figure lurking right outside the door. “S-sorry,” she apologized quickly and stared at the familiar, faded logo of some obscure football branded across the chest of the sweatshirt.

The hard, hot arms bound around her waist slid home her suspicions about who it was, and she stepped away, stumbling over her own feet like some stupid imbecile. Her back hit the door, and she remembered in Lyle House how he hadn't caught her.

“Don’t worry ’bout it,” he muttered, scratching a zit on his cheek and scowling when it bled.

Her head was spinning at seeing him after weeks of avoidance, his eyes burning into her and his hair a bit too long, curling at his shoulders in a very eighties grunge way, wearing baggy jeans with too many holes, barren at the hems with strings hanging off the tears.

Her eyes swept across the wide, masculine column of his throat, the brutal, almost ninety-degree angle of his jaw, his massive, veined hands; bad idea, because her throat went dry and her cheeks felt like they were on fire.

“Chloe,” he called when she squeezed passed him, head ducked down, and caught her arm gingerly. Her skin sizzled at the touch, the callouses on his palms, and she glanced shyly down at his fingers where they looped around her wrist, swallowing it. “Why are you avoiding me?” His eyes gleamed as he flexed his hand, squeezing gently. “Is it…because of that night? When the wolf took over?”

“No,” she squeaked as her heart thumped. If he talked about so calmly, detached, she didn’t think that she’d be able to maintain her composure. “N-not th-that.” She clenched her jaw tightly, feeling pinpricks stab the insides of her eyes.

“Then what is it?” he murmured, his face too close to hers; his breath smelled hot and a bit sour. His nostrils flared, drank in the air… _smelling._ A wave of heat washed over her, pooling in that sweet spot between her thighs.

“Then why are you avoiding me? Did I do something?” He looked half confused and half sad, like a puppy.

“It’s not you,” she said, “it’s me. I’m not…” She took a deep breath to keep it together. “I’m not your t-type. I-I’m no-not your ty-ype, I under-ersta-and.” Her voice broke on every word.

His fingers tightened, painful. Hot breath blew against her cheeks, moist and fiery against her already scalding cheeks. “Not my type?” he whispered, low and dangerous, his voice straining with emotion. “Not my fucking _type?_ ” All too suddenly, he was winding his arms around her, trapping her against him, and he clutched her to him, violent and all too much but still not enough, every inch of him hot, like a stove, burning, a furnace, burning her, boiling her skin in the most delicious ways. His muscles were taut against her feminine softness, and his hands ran along her spine, shoving her pajama top up her back, baring her skin to the cool air.

“Feel this and tell me you aren’t my goddamn type,” he snarled, and his hips jerked up against her, hot through the denim, a hardness digging into her.

Heat blossomed across her face, down her chest, down her belly, and settled across her thighs as her brain whirred. He was hard. For her. For _her_. His cock was digging into her ass, hard, bulging in his jeans, pressing up against her. Because she _made_ him hard.

“See? This is for you, all you. You’re my type, my only type. I pulled away that night because if I hadn’t…” His big, black pupils filled the green of his eyes as he drew a deep breath and shuddered against her. “I would’ve pushed things too far. I wouldn’t have been able to control myself. As you saw.”

She remembered the feverish kiss, his hands wandering, his low voice, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You did that so you wouldn’t hurt me? Not because I’m totally not womanly, with big breasts or a big butt?”

He growled at her words. “Chloe, if I hadn’t gotten away, I would’ve, most likely, had my way with you.” His cheeks turned red. “And you’re beautiful, so fucking sexy, in your own way. You have no idea how hot you are to me.” Rolling his hips, he offered a tiny smile.

“So we’re…”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other, stars in Chloe’s blue eyes, hearts in Derek’s green ones, his breath mingling with hers, and then their mouths touched, gently, shyly. And then his hand was in her hair, a bit too tightly, and his mouth opened, pressing harder against hers, his tongue sneaking out.

Tears sprung to her eyes at the ridiculousness of the past few weeks, laughter bubbling out, and she twisted away from him, pressing her face into his shoulder to stifle her gasping giggles.

“Are you okay?” he asked, wide-eyed as he set her back on her feet firmly.

“No. I was avoiding you because I-I di-idn’t want to s-see your fa-ace and think of th-at night, th-think you’d re-je-ected me,” she admitted, fighting to keep her voice steady and not trip over her words.

“Chloe, I didn’t want to hurt you. I had to get out of there, but I didn’t want to admit my weakness, so I didn’t say anything to you. I’ve always been so in control, so strong. What would you think if I told you I wanted to pound you into the mattress? If I wanted to lose control, a frenzy, to lose myself in you?”

Her face got even hotter.

His cheek pressed against hers.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I want you to lose yourself in me. I want to be your frenzy. It’s okay. I’ll be your kryptonite, Superman. I’ll be your Mary Jane, your Juliet, your Elizabeth, if only you’re my Peter, my Romeo, my Darcy.” She pressed her hands against his cheeks, and stood on tiptoes to press a sweet kiss onto his mouth.

His hands slid down her shoulders, her sides, and settled at her hips. “I’d like that.”

Tori clomped to the base of the stairs and hollered something about dinner.

Derek and Chloe shared a secret smile, the kind that spoke volumes with cotton candy and the bite of lime, and he headed down before her, an entire galaxy in his eyes and stars in his smile.

It was thirteen minutes passed eleven when she realized she couldn’t sleep without cumming first. Lying on her stomach, she pressed her cheek against the cold fabric of her pillowcase and slid a hand from her pillow and downwards, into the elastic waistband of her sweats.

Closing her eyes, she thought about Derek, his hot hands burning the skin of her spine, crushing her against him, and her hand slid lower, onto the coarse, downy curls, and then passed, feeling and rolling her clit gently. Pleasure sizzled across her spine, her mewls swallowed by the pillow she pressed her face into.

Derek was kissing her, drawing her lip into his mouth, sucking it, crushing her into him, his cock burning between her legs, his hands boiling the soft skin of her belly, thumbs digging in. Delicious.

She pressed the flat of her middle finger into the flat expanse of the top of her clit and rubbed a circle slowly. More moans built up.

He was pressing her into the mattress, smothering her with his body, and then he was shirtless, sucking at her neck hard enough to leave a hickey.

She was moaning, chanting his name like a mantra, clawing at his back like a common, filthy whore. Her skin was slick with sweat. He sat back and pulled her shirt up, sucking hard on her belly, leaving a line of rising pink spots that would become hickies. Too turned on to be embarrassed, his smoldering eyes burning her to the core, making her wet and swollen.

She was rocking in the bed, the springs squeaking underneath her, sweat beading on her forehead and in the valley of her breasts, one hand squeezing her nipples until they were heavy and aching, the other grinding the heel of her palm into her clit, the wet noise of her swollen lips sounding painfully loud in the otherwise quiet room. Her hand was aching, cramping; her pussy was sore in the sweetest way.

Derek’s mouth was on hers, sweet, gentle, his hands too tight on her hips.

She unraveled, and her raspy squeak made her ears pound. “Derek!” Her back arched, and her hips rolled, pressing her palm flat against the wet lips, and then she flopped back down.

A floorboard outside her door creaked as she pulled her hand out and turned towards the cracked door, her back to the wall. “’Night, Derek,” she mumbled as she pressed her cheek into the pillow and closed her eyes.


End file.
